Page 59 of Heir of Uncertain Magic

Merritt rubbed his fingers together. Cold. Tired. Maybe he’d lie down and sleep awhile. Maybe he’d remember where he was—who he was—when he woke up.

A sound pierced the quiet: the shifting of fabric. Someone knelt beside him and brushed hair from his forehead. “Merritt.”

He glanced over at her. At her hazel eyes and pretty hair. Stared at her for a few seconds before saying, “I know you.”

“Yes, you do.” Her voice was soft and delicate, like a mother’s.

Something about the comparison hurt, like a barb just behind his navel.

She stroked his hair. “You’re confused. Let’s get you inside before you catch a chill.”

“It’s cold,” he said.

“Very cold,” she agreed.

“Confused?” he asked.

She nodded. “It’s a side effect of chaocracy.” She glanced up at the upside-down trees. All the dancers had gone to bed. The snow—was it snow?—had settled around him, more like puffs of fur than crystals of ice. “And you used a lot of it.”

Some distant part of him knew that was wrong.Hecouldn’t have done that. He didn’t know how.

Quick padding sounded behind him. He turned. The dog from before was approaching with something in his mouth. Merritt knew that dog. He had a name. It was ... house. It was like a house. It was ...

Owein.

The dog dropped a large piece of paper on the ground. It was wrinkled and dirty and had bite marks in it. Hand-drawn letters of the alphabet covered it. The dog pawed one.F.Then another.A.M.I.L.

It looked up at Hulda and whined.

“Y,”she said, and pointed.

The dog pressed its muddy paw toY.

Merritt blinked. The dog pushed its nose into his forearm.

Family.Family?

It hurt to think. His head was radiating with something unpleasant.

Owein.Family. His great-great- ... uncle.

The world blurred, but when Merritt blinked, it cleared. Something hot ran down his cheek.

He had family.

That stabbing sensation behind his navel dulled a little.

The woman—Hulda—took his hands and pressed them to either side of her neck. Her skin was warm. “It’s my turn to take care of you,” she whispered, and pressed cool lips to his forehead. Grasping his elbows, she helped him stand. “Let’s get you home.”

With Baptiste’s help, Hulda had gotten Merritt into bed. By the time she’d boiled water on the stove, made him a cup of tea, and brought it to his bedroom, he’d returned to himself.

He sat upright, his vest removed and his sleeves rolled up, his attention on the dark window. Candlelight flickered across his features,distorting them, but when Hulda set her candle beside his, his solemn expression settled.

He didn’t appear to notice her until she pushed the cup at him. “Oh,” he managed. “Thank you.”

She searched for a chair to pull up and, when she didn’t find one, sat on the edge of the bed. “I hate to say it,” she treaded carefully, “but Silas Hogwood was right.”

“Hm.” The teacup warped the sound. He sipped and winced. “Goodness, Hulda. There’s alotof sugar in this.”

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